


Monstrance

by Blueinkedfrost



Category: 50 Shades of Grey - E. L. James
Genre: BDSM does not work this way, F/M, Sparklepires, Spitefic, dubcon, he had it coming, noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:15:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueinkedfrost/pseuds/Blueinkedfrost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monster meets monster.  Another story in which Christian Grey Gets His.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monstrance

_Warnings:_ Dubcon and noncon, neither of which are condoned by the author against anyone. Misapplied BDSM, but that's as per canon.

 _Notes:_ The character in this is a sparklepire called Bodhi, who in another canon is a real vampire, and who is here given Edward's powers.

Story inspired by Gehayi's and Ket's sporkings at das-sporking, and by Christian Grey being a horrifyingly creepy stalker and rapist. One Blackadder reference is made.

 _Fandoms:_ 50 Shades of Grey, Baldur's Gate, Twilight

—

He didn't catch her name.

She tilted back her head as she raised the glass flute of Dampierre champagne to her lips, her sweep of soot-black hair curled at her white chin. A scarf in diaphanous gold fabric bound her neck like a collar, set above a brief dress of dull black. He saw a trace of black lipstick that remained on the champagne glass when she lowered it, the shade stark and smudged on her lips.

_Such pale skin. I would like to see it flushed with pain._

Her stiletto heels reached a torturous height, though she showed no discomfort with them. A petite young woman even with them on, but outflung chest and hips gave her a mature look.

_A whore. Most women are. Except for when discipline and training are duly administered..._

She turned her head to stare so suddenly into his eyes that he gave a start. She smiled as if she liked what she saw. He was used to glances like that. She had come with that ridiculous pink-haired four-foot midget girl and a pale millionaire doctor and his wife. All four of them pale, so very pale, but he thought her skin was the most pale and perfect of them all. The crude lipstick spoiled it—so very heavy, a childish slut half-practicing her arts—but the skin around it had the translucent quality of glass.

Christian Grey shivered as if a cold winter wind had passed through the charity gathering well-lit and thoroughly heated, a hundred guests passing warmth to each other. But cold was only invigorating to him.

_There is Ana...but she is disobedient. Much too disobedient. This one looks willing and young._

All he remembered was that her name had begun with B. B-something. It didn't matter. He would find other names to call her. Baby. Little miss. Pet. Slave. Mine. The crowd of meaningless nobodies parted before him like a biblical sea, and it was as if she came to him in the same way. Her perfume was intoxicating. Close, he could not decide if she looked seventeen or twenty-seven: her body was beautifully young but her pose adult. A girl aching and hungry and begging for it. For him. Only him.

Inches from her face he saw that the colour of her irises was a tawny yellow created by contact lenses, marked with livid, plainly artificial orange streaks. Heavy mascara painted her lashes as starkly black as her mouth. A faint blue tinge was drawn below her eyes as if the girl was exhausted.

_They listen so much more readily on the brink of collapse._

The small talk was banal. She spoke in high, breathy tones that he was certain teased him on purpose, moth dancing to lure the flame that would set her ablaze. He replied in kind. No flush showed in pale cheeks or pale, narrow throat, though she devoted her talk to him only. He imagined his hands leaving black and blue traces upon that ivory skin.

_A pale-skinned brunette, exquisitely small._

She was made so exactly the way he liked to punish little girls.

And for a brief moment he thought of a story from childhood, not from the crack whore but from Grace reading sanitised, clean-pressed picture books. A girl born with skin pale as snow; hair black as ebony; lips red as blood. Perhaps this girl's lips would flush ruby below that atrocious lipstick and certain other parts of her blush at his will. Perhaps he would reach the stage of painting her red with her own blood, red and white in a palette of striped and wounded flesh...

"I decided to leave this party early," he offered. "Would you care for a ride?"

Her lips curved upward and he could not help but notice how blindingly white were her teeth: expensive dentistry, slightly wolfish due to sharp edges, her mouth moist as if smoothed with Vaseline.

"If your family does not object to your absconding with strangers..." Christian teased provocatively, draping a possessive arm across her shoulders already. She was strangely cold and tense. This was a test for her: whether her circumstances were fortuitous for his plans. It would be a challenge for him not to rip away her clothes and take her in the car. Whether or not he could proceed he wanted her with him and needed it now.

_Or I will have her no matter what. I am Christian Grey and I could buy her family with a snap of my fingers._

"Fuck, let's sneak outta this fucking slumberland. I don't give a shit what my family thinks. I've got cards that say I'm legal, in case you were wondering..."

The crude profanities slipped so easily from her lips. Another list of infractions. She smiled so knowingly that he knew she would beg for everything he chose to give her. The thought of family estrangement excited him: they were best when they were utterly his possession.

He resented Taylor's presence from the moment he had the girl within his car. She made no calls nor sent messages; nobody to care for her whereabouts. She glared at the red-stitched seats with a challenging flash in her eyes.

"Audi Quattro. Overpriced foreign crap," she said. "At least make your chauffeur stop driving like a fucking old lady crossing the road on foot. Show me if this baby does anything at all."

"This baby goes far and fast, baby," Christian teased, heavy-laced with innuendo. Of course he placed his trust in Taylor's driving. What did it matter if they broke the rules made for little people? Taylor knew better than to disobey and they surged hard and fast. The sooner to reach his den.

The girl sat sprawled insouciantly in the back, somehow away from him, dancing to avoid each time he tried to grasp her there and then. Her perfume was a dizzying ambrosia, nectar-like with a metallic edge he could not quantify. The black lipstick was smudged and stained as if she salivated ready for him, as if she already imagined lips wrapped around his cock and leaving a trail of her paint on his skin. Her black dress concealed none of her shape, the flawless pearl-smooth skin of her hips protruding from a high slit. His hunt continued, but the fox longed to be hunted. When he succeeded in bringing her to his grasp he might well take her here in the roaring car after all. His arousal was diamond-hard. He was drunk on the girl's heady wine.

_She is a witch, the crude little whore. I will punish her for that._

Analysis was pointless. Christian had arrived where he was by giving quick, decisive orders and enforcing his mastery of all around him at every turn. Had he been of a different turn of mind, he might have thought that he had not entered so suddenly to this with any of his sixteen others. That he preferred his pursuits one at a time and Ana Steele was not yet finished to his liking. That this girl left him utterly breathless and blind to others—ever since she had entered the same room as he.

"Normally I wouldn't do this without an NDA signed and sealed," he told her. "The fucking media jumps on me."

"Fucking nosy wannabe reporters. Let's not anyone know about us," she said with meaning. Without resistance she let him shuffle away her handbag. She would contact nobody tonight. Her eyes flickered wantonly to his fly. "What juicy secrets don't you want them to know about, Mister Grey?"

A delicious, cool shiver set itself at the back of his spine once more and he relished the sensation. "You would be...surprised, I think, to find what interests me."

_And surprised you will be, like it or not, little girl. For Little Red Riding Hood is in the clutches of the wolf now._

To that the girl smiled angelically, a black-lipped fallen angel begging for punishment of her sins. Her wet red tongue flicked out, toying with the corners of her mouth. "Fuck, that turns me on. I've had people saying my tastes get weird. The one thing I can't fucking stand is boredom. You want to play or not?"

"Come to my playroom and I'll show you exactly how I play." Christian gave her the smile that had melted an immeasurable plethora of other women, though their faces blurred in his memory at the sight of this girl. The Audi Quattro shook and squealed through the streets at Taylor stimulating the engine; it had better be enough to satisfy her. They neared his skyscraper apartment. Only the elevator to go, and then they would be isolated on the top floor behind three feet of sound insulation. The dizzying potential soared through him.

He fell impatiently out of the car with her behind him, opening the door himself rather than waiting for Taylor. He grunted at his chauffeur to leave them; he was tempted to reach into the cab and throw Taylor out just to make sure he went away, but that was foolish when he had her.

"I'm on the thirty-first floor," he muttered in the direction of her silken black hair.

"I know," she lied, for after all she could not know him so soon. "I'm a good guesser."

He slammed a hand above her head and pinned her to the wall of the elevator with his size. She was small and delicate; so few women could escape this pose. The elevator's silver walls pushed them together and imprisoned her, too-slowly crawling to his penthouse. And that irresistible perfume of hers filled the small space, silvering over his throat and lungs with its sharp-edged bloom.

"Can't wait to fuck you," Christian told her. "You fucking dirty slut, you know what you do to me."

"Makes you a fucking wanton slut too. You'd be up for anything I'd tell you," her foul mouth dripped for him. He would thrust a gag securely between those painted lips—or show her what each infraction cost in pain. "Gags. Whipping."

And it seemed her filthy whore's mouth leapt to everything he was thinking. Her wrists in black cuffs dragging from the ceiling. Clamps. A spreader bar. Hot wax dripped on that perfect skin. Caning. Fisting.

"I'll try practically everything but bloodplay," she said, tormenting him with her high girlish voice. "You wouldn't like me when I'm around blood."

To that he had to smile, coldly, his own teeth white and wolflike. "You wouldn't like me around blood, either."

( _How the most recent of the fifteen had screamed and begged over the red-ribboned ruin of her lovely shoulders and chest. How he'd driven into her like never before, even compared to the slippery last throes of the one he'd held bound under the hot bath to her death..._ )

For a moment, oddly, Christian remembered Elena in one of their playtimes; himself crawling with a collar around his neck and on a leash for her. Learning how to control others and learning how fucking hot it was—

The girl's hand playfully twisted at his tie. "Tell me what you'd do for me," she whispered, lips close to his ear yet strangely chilled.

"For you, baby? Anything." His breath curled across her lovely skin. The elevator slowed; time itself might as well have crawled like molasses.

She shook her head. "Don't call me baby. Call me your fucking goddess. No, just goddess will do." Her laughter rang out like silver bells.

Christian shook his head to clear his thoughts, unable to look away from the perfect smooth line of her jaw, from the small streaks of crude mascara on her cheeks. "As long as fucking is involved. Goddess."

It was she who grabbed him out of the elevator. Somehow she pushed him through the penthouse door as he'd wished to do to her. The hard white floor of his own foyer met his knees. He looked at her white face above him: the ink-black of her hair like dark blood, the ebony of her lips.

"For you, goddess? Anything," Christian Grey found himself repeating, begging, the words tumbling out of him like torrential floods washing away metal gutters, all the needs he'd felt with Elena coming back to him. He wanted this, needed this, the dark side of him coming to the fore and gasping for it. In a moment of clarity he knew Ana would never give him what she wanted until the last breath of her life—although that he would take from her still. The girl he could not take his eyes from barked a triumphant laugh.

"Because I'm fucking gorgeous, that's fucking why. Everyone knows that—" She stamped a dagger-sharp stiletto on his white floor. "But not so many take it like you, Grey. You'd fucking plead to fuck the way I want."

"Yes," he breathed in, her scent and the pure white shape of her filling his senses. And the wolf in him smiled at later promises. "To the playroom before we stain the countertops. You'll like it."

_Flay the witch, stripe her, punish the whore for existing—_

He saw her grin, teeth flashing, childlike and amused, and she was so enthused and hungry for it all that it made him feel fifteen and immortal once more. Elena was a dim memory beside her and Ana a mere shadow. This was the real thing, he thought, even as she had him hanging naked and suspended from his own karabiners, thick cushioned ropes holding his wrists helpless while she rummaged for toys—

"Fuck yeah, metal toys! Way more durable—"

"We play," he tried to order, "and don't touch me except to play."

He heard her laugh again, and the familiar swish of his own knotted rope whip came through the air.

( _and why had he offered himself in the past if not for this?_ )

The scene became a dazzling, intense blur. Blood rushed to all parts of his body except his head, as if he was drugged up on painkillers or something more—yet he was clean and it was only the excitement of the scene. Her exuberance carried him like a flame, though when she stroked her hands across his back and chest she was deliciously cold as ice. "So fucking warm," she muttered, and the molten fire of her exhilaration and laughing black mouth all but made him come on that alone—

She was behind him and whooping like a madwoman. "Fuck, I'm gonna make myself a Christian Grey hand puppet!"

Indescribable sensations. He was panting at the end of it, draped over his oxblood couch, not willing to pass into sleep. Red numbers on his clock showed it was already past dawn in this womb-like darkness of his playroom. She laughed as strongly as ever, inexhaustible, craving him even now. _He would keep her_ , he told himself, _keep the goddess in a cage and release her to go as wild as she pleased until he tired of her..._

But then he started with terror as she took a cigarette from her handback and lit up, puffing a heavy smell of clove.

"What? I always smoke after sex. So sometimes I'm a pack-a-day woman."

"I don't allow it. I don't allow anyone to smoke around me." Christian's voice rose uncontrollably higher, though he did not try to stop himself. Grace had told him a hundred times what the scars on his chest were and meant. "Not my employees and certainly not my partners. You'll have to put it out."

But she blew a plume of smoke before him, and with a growing horror he stared at her. She no longer looked like a seventeen-year-old girl, and behind the smoke her eyes were ageless and predatory.

"Because the crack whore—your mom—let her pimp put his smokes out on you. Or that's the version of the story you got from your adopted mom and what three-year-old you remembered. I can't tell you if it's true or not," she said, and leaned forward to carelessly trace his scars. He would have sworn that he never told anyone but Doctor Flynn.

She should not know. He stumbled forward and grasped her wrist. She'd felt smooth and slick throughout the night; a lubrication too slippery for ordinary gel. As his fingers clasped her skin it felt like marble. She had no pulse. Solid rock. The orange streaks had fled her eyes and left them only a strange gold, as if her contacts had disappeared—but that colour also barely looked natural. Again, she ran her tongue about her lips, the black smudges all but gone. Her pale-lipped smile was that of a shark.

"Your skin's too hard. Your eyes are fucked up. There's something wrong with you. I'm calling security," he told her.

"No. You won't," she said, and casually pinned his wrists back down. She was small and only a woman and he pushed against her as hard as he could. But he might as well have tried to move a statue.

"Your kind is always the same," she said. "So fucking shocked when you find out there's a bigger shark in the fucking pond. I'm more of a monster than you'll ever be...even with the fifteen bodies you've buried. In your backyard, huh?"

And flashes of the final resting places he had selected for the fifteen flashed through his mind one by one, and even the little spot by the meadow he had appointed for Ana one day in the future. And even as he did so, the monster smiled knowingly.

"A shark," he said, "you're pale as death. You have no heartbeat. You lure people. You know what's in my head. You can't...bloodplay?"

( _white as snow and black as ebony and red, red as gushing blood: for she drank heart's blood in place of fine wine._ )

"I'll give you a deal," Christian Grey offered, "all the blood you can drink. Let's team up. You can even turn me to a creature like you. We can hunt together and I'll watch you drain their blood at the end."

 _Yes_ , he thought, _if she is dead as she seems—she will change me and I will be an immortal god. Master of the universe._

But a pout crept over her perfect face. "Human blood?" she said, and her right hand rested over the pulsing, swollen veins in his chest. "I lose control when it's spilt. I show my fucking family I'm strong enough to do without it. No, I feed on four-legged things. And because I get fucking bored, I hunt other monsters. Mostly those of my own kind, because they're an actual challenge. But when that prey learns to stay away from me...I still get so very fucking bored."

He began to threaten to escape. "You'll never get away with this," Christian said. "They'll all notice I'm missing and they saw me leave with you. I'm a billionaire. I'll buy you anything you want. All the blood banks, all the donors, all the sweet disposable women. I'm a billionaire and they'll know I'm gone. You'll let me go this instant."

"No," the girl who wasn't a girl said sweetly. "What do you think—let you go knowing what I am? You think that in a _very_ long time I haven't learned how to hide a body or thousand?"

Christian began to scream. But nobody could hear the screams from his playroom, for he'd soundproofed it himself. His throat fled to collapsed hoarse rags.

One last time the monster spoke with him, her high voice whispering into his ear, her cold lips forcing themselves against his skin. They would be the last words that Christian Grey ever heard.

"How many ways are there to make a billionaire disappear?"

—

The silver phone beeped twice in the woman's bag, and she flipped open the tiny instrument, gloating at the silent remains of her handiwork before her. There were so many bloodless ways to get the job done, after all.

The tinny voice bubbled into her right ear. "I can tell you've made a lot of human women's futures much happier now, big sis. Does that make you feel happy too?"

She gave an impatient scowl to her beautiful reflection in Christian Grey's glass wall.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, you twee fucking shortassed little clot."

—


End file.
